


From These Ashes

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: sentinel_thurs, Future Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2020-03-07 03:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18864364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Reflections in front of the fireplace.(This is sad fic, mourning fic; but Jim and Blair are fine, and it's many-years-in-the-future fic.)





	From These Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 526 : "fireplace"

It's a nice cabin. Nice view from the front porch, where Jim's currently standing, and an even nicer view from the back deck. Nice all the way around; everything inside and out is well-kept and chosen more for comfort than for style. Jim's grateful for that, since renting a place sight unseen is sometimes risky. The cabin could've turned out to be a dump and it would hardly have been a disaster, but it would've made things harder and they don't need that right now. Blair doesn't need that right now.

Jim takes in a deep breath and feels himself relax a little as he makes himself pay attention to the mingled scents of evergreen, earth, ocean and clean air. Familiar scents, but there are subtle differences here, and the air feels soft around him even with the porch deep in shadow and the temperature beginning to drop. The redwoods across the small clearing where they've got the rental car parked are picking up the last rays of the evening sun, long golden bars of light that seem to carry a sense of peace along with them. The muted rush and retreat of the distant surf brings its own sense of peace as well. Jim thinks about switching to the back deck to watch the sun set into the ocean, but when he takes a sip of the coffee he brought outside with him he finds that it's gone cold; he's been out here too long already.

He turns away from the railing he's been leaning against and moves towards the front door, giving one of the wooden rocking chairs a deliberate nudge as he passes it and listening to the gentle, slowly diminishing creak of its rockers against the wide boards of the porch floor as he goes inside.

The living room has glass doors opening out onto the back deck and a bank of windows on that wall, and is currently so filled with the sunset's golden light that Jim's eyes are dazzled for a moment. He doesn't see Blair. He hears him, though, breathing so quietly that most people — people who weren't carrying around dial-'em-up, dial-'em-down senses — wouldn't be able to hear the barely there sound, hidden as it is beneath the crackling of the fire burning in the massive stone fireplace. 

Blair must be stretched out on the couch that faces the fireplace. Napping, maybe, since he's breathing slowly enough that he could be asleep. Jim puts his neglected cup of coffee down on the small catch-all table just inside the doorway and pauses. The high back of the couch doesn't let him see Blair from here, but the sound of Blair breathing is… hell, it's reassuring. It always has been — at least when his breathing sounds calm and peaceful, like now. 

Jim huffs something that might almost be a laugh, managing to keep it quiet so he doesn't disturb Blair. Christ, Naomi would've probably given up tofu — maybe even sage — to have had even half the ability Jim has to keep track of Blair, especially during Blair's pre-teen years. Some of the stories she's told Jim…. 

Some of the stories she _told_ Jim. 

There won't be any more stories. No more tales of Blair's sometimes ill-advised youthful explorations, both geographical and social. No more — hair-raising, at least to Jim — stories about a seven-year-old Blair heading out on his own from a backwoods West Virginia commune to "find himself," or about a twelve-year-old Blair's Budding Anthropologist (and completely unsafe sounding) adventures in the jungles of Belize. 

Jim shakes his head once, sharply. Blair is who he is in great part because Naomi was who she was. Wandering the world with a kid in tow and trying out all those "alternative lifestyles" clearly worked for her, and she made it work for Blair. Jim feels a smile quirk his lips — _Blair_ made it work for Blair, too; Jim has no doubt about that. Blair learned to think for himself early on, learned to stand on his own two feet.

Learned how to be happy. That's something Jim spent too much of his life forgetting until Blair got under his skin deep enough to remind him how important it is.

There's a faint rustle from the neighborhood of the couch, and Jim pulls himself out of his thoughts and heads across the room. Turns out he was wrong: Blair's not stretched out on the couch; he's sitting on the floor in front of it, leaning back against it and staring at the fire. He doesn't move even when Jim rounds the end of the couch and stands next to him.

Jim suppresses a sigh. He'd hoped Blair was catching up on some sleep, but no such luck. Also… well, Blair's sitting on the floor. If Jim wants to join him, which he does, he's either got to make Blair get up so they can sit on the — very comfortable — couch together, or he has to get down on the floor himself. So the question is, disturb Blair now or pay for it later when Jim's aging knees complain about having to haul the rest of his aging body up from floor level?

Blair's still staring into the fire, barely blinking, and there really isn't any question, after all. Jim's knees cooperate reasonably well when he sits down beside Blair — they're saving their ire for later, of course — and he stretches his legs out, crosses them at the ankles, and brushes his arm against Blair's side. Blair leans into him and Jim cants his head to rest against the side of Blair's head. He watches the fire, but he watches as much of Blair as he can see, too; watches the movement of Blair's chest as he breathes, watches Blair's fingers as they slide back and forth over the faded denim covering his thighs, the strokes short and gentle and mindless.

It's probably not as long as it seems before Jim puts his hand on top of Blair's nearest hand and stills its restless motion. "She would like what you're doing, you know," he says quietly. 

The hand Jim's trapped underneath his own turns over, and the fingers interlace with Jim's fingers. "What _we're_ doing, you mean," Blair answers. He sighs. "I know." He's silent for a couple of minutes, his hand still keeping Jim's hand warm, reassuring company, before he clears his throat and says, "Jim…. Thanks."

Which is fucking ridiculous and Jim shakes his head, which makes Blair shake his head too, since Jim's still got his temple pressed against Blair's short, just beginning to gray curls. That gets a chuckle out of Blair, and _that_ gets a smile out of Jim. "Yeah, okay," Blair says, even though Jim hasn't said anything. He doesn't _need_ to say anything. Blair knows; things like this don't need thanks. And all Jim's done, anyway, is suggest they rent a cabin for this part of it. Blair's the one who mapped it out, who's led them around this stretch of northern California so they could scatter some of Naomi's ashes in some of her favorite places on the planet. 

Jim hasn't found it hard to understand why she felt that way about this part of the world. A redwood forest at daybreak; a quiet cove on the ocean at sunset; a perfectly landscaped park in a small coastal town, the streets crowded with the bustle of a combined art fair and music festival; the serene rolling meadows surrounding the equally serene buildings that housed a spiritual retreat center Naomi had always loved…. It's all been beautiful.

Nearly as beautiful as Naomi was. Almost two decades' worth of out-of-the-blue visits, of sneak Feng Shui attacks and of marathon meditation sessions in Blair's old room, and she was still as beautiful the last time Jim saw her as she was the first. She never seemed to change much — maybe all the tofu kept her younger than her years; maybe the meditation helped. Or maybe it was just Naomi's sheer stubbornness, her refusal to let anything keep her from living life on her own terms. Jim finds himself suddenly, unexpectedly grateful for Blair's insistence on the frequent appearance of tofu in their diet and for the hours Blair spends meditating every week. 

He's not feeling particularly grateful right now for the stubbornness Blair clearly inherited from Naomi, however. At least when he says, "I'm thinking about warming up our leftovers from lunch for dinner; you on board with that?" he manages to keep his tone casual, even though there have been too many leftovers at too many meals since they learned of Naomi's death more than a month ago, and Jim's getting tired of it. Tired, or maybe a little worried; sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. 

"Yeah, sure," Blair says. The lack of interest is clear in his voice, and Jim sighs and tightens his grip on Blair's hand. 

"You saw that apron hanging on the hook on the back of the pantry door?" he says. "You want me to strip down, put that apron on, and hand feed you, Sandburg? Is that what it's going to take for you to eat?"

Blair laughs at that, a full-out laugh, not just a chuckle. "You always _have_ had a thing for aprons," he says. "That one's a little in-your-face, though, don't you think? I already _know_ 'The Cook Is Hot.'"

"Damn right I am," Jim says, and Blair laughs again and leans more firmly against Jim. He's quiet then again for a long while and Jim stays quiet, too. Maybe he _will_ put that apron on. It can't hurt. If nothing else, it will pull another laugh or two out of Blair, and Jim's grateful for every laugh he's managed to pry out of his partner since that midnight phone call informing them that the Cessna Naomi was a passenger in had crashed in the foothills of the Sierras. Jim's been here before — not here, exactly, but he's lost more than one person he's loved — and he's come to learn the value of lightening your grief when you can, even if for only a few moments.

The fire pops and crackles. The sun's long since set, and the cabin is dark around them except for the flickering glow from the flames. Blair stirs a little, finally. "Kind of symbolic, right?" he says, and nods his head towards the fire. "It's beautiful and… fearless, in a way. And it does exactly what it wants, sort of sweeps everything along with it. Then it just ends up in ashes."

His breath hitches a little and Jim plants a kiss on top of his curls. "Don't get maudlin on me, Chief," Jim says — after he swallows a completely unnecessary lump in his throat — and, "Anyway, I'm betting Naomi's like that bird that keeps rising from the ashes; phoenix, isn't it? And somewhere out there in… I don't know, Never-Never Land, or somewhere like that, that she's spreading her wings again, burning just as bright as ever."

"'Never-Never Land'?" Blair says, his voice flat. "I get this whole beautiful —"

"Maudlin," Jim interjects.

"— okay, maudlin, but _beautiful_ metaphor thing going, and you send Mom off to Never-Never Land? Jesus, Jim." He isn't managing to keep his voice flat anymore, though, and Jim can hear the smile in it. That's good enough for now.

It's even better when Blair — whose yoga-trained and somewhat younger knees won't be complaining nearly as much as Jim's will be when they finally get up from this benighted floor — shifts to straddle Jim's lap and leans in for a kiss. It's an easy kiss, a "Hi, there" kiss more than a hot-and-heavy one, but it's reassuring all the same, and Jim's found that he needs more reassurance these days than he used to need.

Behind Blair, the fire crackles and snaps, beauty burning down into ashes, and Jim pulls Blair in a little closer and deepens the kiss. 

Reassurance. Or maybe one of Naomi's favorite words would be more fitting: affirmation. Blair makes a small sound deep in his throat and grinds down a little against Jim's pelvis, and those metaphorical ashes can go fuck themselves for now; Jim's got better things to think about, to make sure Blair spends some time thinking about. Or _doing,_ more than thinking about. Reassuring things. Life-affirming things.

Wherever she might be right now, Never-Never Land or not, Naomi would approve. 

Jim's sure of it.  
 


End file.
